


knocking antlers

by FantasticallyFoolishIdea



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Accidental Headbutt of Love, Datekougyou | Date Tech, Humor, Kamasaki's Work Out Routine Is All Mental Gymnastics, M/M, Minor Injuries, Oblivious Kamasaki Yasushi, POV Kamasaki Yasushi, Pre-Slash, Senpai Notice Me, Senpai-Kouhai Relationship, character study of sorts, they're both so unbelievably bad at feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23426881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantasticallyFoolishIdea/pseuds/FantasticallyFoolishIdea
Summary: Those big brown eyes are going to be the death of him.“Kamasaki-san, stop thinking so hard! You're gonna strain something.”If Futakuchi’s rotten personality doesn’t kill him first, that is.
Relationships: Futakuchi Kenji/Kamasaki Yasushi
Comments: 7
Kudos: 71





	knocking antlers

**Author's Note:**

> Or alternatively, me milking the "doe eyes" metaphor for all it's worth.
> 
> Or alternatively, alternatively, how many different epithets for Futakuchi can Kamasaki come up with over the course of one OS.
> 
> Honestly, this fic started out as nothing but the summary. Then things inevitably got out of hand.
> 
> Still working on the character dynamics of Date Tech and Kamasaki and Futakuchi in particular. Right now, I'm just kinda experimenting with what's fun to write while trying to figure out what makes these characters tick.
> 
> That being said, Kamasaki and Futakuchi both are trashbags in their own peculiar ways and I love them dearly.

Those big brown eyes are going to be the death of him.

“Kamasaki-san, stop thinking so hard! You're gonna strain something.”

If Futakuchi’s rotten personality doesn’t kill him first, that is.

Aone appears just in time to stop him from marching to the other side of the net and throttling him. Insistent fingers dig into the meaty part of his shoulder as Aone fixes him with a stern look.

Straight across, Futakuchi smiles genially, those same eyes curving up in a conspicuously innocent expression.

As if he hadn’t made being a pain in his side his sole mission in life, the little shit.

Aone’s grip tightens, Kamasaki clenches his jaw and doggedly keeps his eyes on Futakuchi. He absolutely refuses to engage Aone in a stare-down while he has to look up at him.

Partly obscured by Futakuchi’s lanky frame, Moniwa is flailing in a silent but not at all subtle plea for him to be the bigger person and let it go.

Kamasaki scoffs but, out of consideration for Moniwa’s nerves, he backs off.

He brushes off Aone’s hand, consciously suppressing the urge to wince and roll his shoulder right after. Because Aone still doesn’t know his strength and Futakuchi is watching. Showing weakness in front of Futakuchi never turns out well for anyone, least of all for Kamasaki. Futakuchi has a habit of zeroing in on him like a laser-guided missile.

Since the game hasn’t resumed yet, Futakuchi rocks back on his feels and stretches his arms above his head, idly rolling his shoulders to get rid of some imaginary tension.

Except he’s smirking the whole while, eyes sparkling with mischief and unerringly trained on Kamasaki.

No man should be armed with that kind of doe eyes if he’s only going to use them for evil.

Still, Kamasaki’s committed himself to his captain’s appeal and graciously pretends the little taunt flew over his head. He tilts his head, putting on a confused expression and takes some petty enjoyment out of the way Futakuchi deflates almost instantly.

Peace momentarily preserved, Moniwa loses several inches in height as a result of the tension draining out of him.

Next to Moniwa, Sasaya, tries and fails to hide his snicker. It’s not quite clear which one of them he’s laughing at, but given that it’s Sasaya, “all of them” seems a likely option.

In light of Kamasaki’s underwhelming reaction, Futakuchi is sulking.

Kamasaki can tell at a glance. And while the urge to throttle him never really goes away, Oiwake’s paying close attention to them now, unspoken threats of penalties rolling off him in waves. Kamasaki may admit to being a bit of a meathead at times, an idiot he is not.

Although Futakuchi might beg to differ but, then again, Futakuchi would also cut off his nose if it meant spiting Kamasaki’s face, making his opinion on the matter irrelevant.

And there that brat goes again, invading his thoughts and taking up valuable mental real estate Kamasaki’d rather see applied elsewhere.

The thing about this messy, convoluted, inexplicable thing between him and Futakuchi is,

although he’s tried,

although he really, really, _really_ wants to,

although he’ll deny it to his dying day and _then_ come back as a ghost to deny it some more,

Kamasaki doesn’t actually dislike the clown.

Sure, he’s about five seconds from strangling him at all times. But it’s all from a place of love. Like a stern mother, he just wants what’s best for his underclassmen. All of them. Futakuchi just happens to be a particularly nasty piece of work who requires a disproportionate amount of his attention.

On the far side of the court, Obara is getting ready to serve.

The referee hasn’t blown his whistle yet but Koganegawa’s already trembling in anticipation, a giant ball of nervous energy ready to blow up the second a volleyball enters his field of vision.

Futakuchi notices, too, after he chances a mildly concerned glance to his right and he widens his stance accordingly. Then he notices Kamasaki’s smirk and scowls.

“Don’t get knocked over again. Can’t have our ace injuring himself mere weeks before the Inter High!”

Kamasaki pointedly drops his gaze to the fresh bruise on Futakuchi’s elbow that’s already beginning to darken. Futakuchi’s expression darkens, too, and Kamasaki counts it as his win.

Moniwa, blessed with a nigh infallible intuition for misbehaviour—frowns in disapproval.

Then, the whistle sounds and all petty grievances are lost in a flurry of activity once Obara’s hand connects with the ball.

The ball clears the net several times, neither side successfully taking the point. The rally stops when Futakuchi locks Kamasaki in a joust.

Met with unexpected resistance, a guttural noise escapes Kamasaki. He pushes, gathers his strength and _pushes_. Until he feels the defence crack under the weight of his fingers.

Futakuchi’s arm gives. The ball goes past, hits the floor behind him; and they’re back on their feet.

Kamasaki straightens first, Futakuchi takes a second longer to catch his breath.

Placing both hands on his hips and puffing his chest, Kamasaki laughs.

Then he catches Futakuchi’s glower and laughs louder.

Muttering to himself, Futakuchi slinks away to get back into position. Kamasaki picks up something vaguely along the lines of “brute force” and “savage” but he sounds so affronted, Kamasaki can’t even bring himself to be mad.

Instead, he basks in the thrill of a point scored while he’s got the chance. Because he’s confident Futakuchi won’t let him wrestle another point from him like that.

Over the last couple of weeks, Futakuchi’s block has firmed up considerably. There’s more power in his jumps and more resolve in his spikes.

And, much to Kamasaki’s irritation, that joker’s potential _still_ isn’t exhausted. He just needs someone stubborn enough to hunker down, pry apart that lackadaisical attitude, and drag it out of him.

Because Futakuchi thrives on confrontation. Which works for Kamasaki because he himself absolutely thrives off provocation.

And Futakuchi devoted himself to provoking him at every chance he gets long before Kamasaki’d grown conscious of Futakuchi’s skill. And once he did, he noticed what difference the right kind of motivation made.

Like Moniwa, Kamasaki wants to make sure they’re leaving the team in capable hands after the Inter High.

Unlike Moniwa, he suspects those hands might turn out to be Futakuchi’s.

If he shapes up and gets serious, that is, since Kamasaki sure as hell ain’t giving him his vote of confidence if Futakuchi’s going to keeps dragging his feet. Shit, he’d be laughed out of the clubroom!

For now, he–

Futakuchi catches him staring and, as the referee’s attention is on the server, sticks out his tongue.

A vein in Kamasaki’s forehead pulses ominously.

 _For now, he’ll just have to suck it up_ and take having his own personal gremlin incessantly pestering him to do better, for the bizarrely effective motivation that it is.

Except Futakuchi never does what people expect him to do. Doubly so, when it happens to intersect with what Kamasaki wants him to do.

Because while Futakuchi might live to make other peoples’ lives difficult, it’s only Kamasaki he’s actively trying to make miserable.

* * *

_It’s gotta be the eyes_ , Kamasaki decides when he once again finds himself wondering what heinous crimes he committed in a past live (genocide seems like a hot contender, online marketing a close second) that the universe saw it just to inflict Futakuchi upon him and what on earth possess him to let that asshole badger him into tutoring him every time.

For all of his claims of genius and intellectual superiority – or just superiority to Kamasaki’s intellect in particular, because he’s _like that_ – Futakuchi’s actually pretty shit at MAE.

And Kamasaki… Well. Kamasaki’s a bleeding heart who can’t say no to a pair of big brown eyes. Even if it’s got Futakuchi attached.

Apparently, he’s a masochist too.

Because he’s gone for all of five minutes to get drinks and in the meantime Futakuchi’s somehow found his way onto his bed, littered its entire surface with his notes and textbooks and, since his parents obviously failed to teach him both, boundaries _and_ manners, he’s munching on a bag of chips.

And for some unfathomable reason, Kamasaki’s _still_ not kicking him out.

He hurls the tray, loaded not only with drinks but snacks too because his mum insists he be good host regardless of whether Futakuchi has any interest in being a good guest, at Futakuchi’s head.

At least, he imagines doing it.

But since he is, in fact, a good host and Futakuchi, gadfly or not, came to him for help, he controls the urge and calmly sets the tray down on his desk instead. The glasses wobble ominously and even the likes of Futakuchi jump at the sound.

Actually no, that’s the wishful thinking again.

The real Futakuchi, currently still on his bed, doesn’t know fear. He slowly looks up slowly, blinks his bangs out of his eyes and impassively quirks an eyebrow.

Then, he pops another chip in his mouth.

Muttering a string of increasingly unflattering curses, Kamasaki stalks across the room and snatches the bag of chips from under Futakuchi’s nose and off his bed.

Futakuchi makes a noise of protest but mercifully refrains from picking a fight over what generally passes as common decency. Even though he’s fairly sure Futakuchi himself doesn’t possess a shred of it.

“No.”

“So mean, Kamasaki-san…” Futakuchi grumbles and turns his back. The movement is accompanied by the sound of paper crinkling. Kamasaki remains unmoved.

In fact, he’s fairly sure recognises the crumpled index of his physics textbook poking forth from underneath Futakuchi’s ass. The same book he’d last seen ten minutes ago. On his desk.

“What’s that? I can’t hear you.”

Kamasaki takes a handful of chips and unapologetically stuffs them into his mouth, writing it off as compensation for emotional distress. Right afterwards, he realises it’s his own fault for letting a wild animal into his house.

The realisation hits hard. Obviously he’s entitled to another handful of Futakuchi’s chips to steady his nerves.

Futakuchi actively ignores him.

It differs from passively ignoring him in that Futakuchi keeps looking over his shoulder to see if it’s working.

With the ball of his foot, Kamasaki gives his desk chair a push and watches the top spin merrily as it rolls to a stop next to his bed. Then he follows its path and sits down, legs straddling the backrest on both sides and his arms crossed on top of it severely.

“Look, if you’re gonna come begging for help, least you can do is behave.”

Kamasaki’s talking around a mouthful of chips. Futakuchi throws yet another look over his shoulder and their eyes meet. He promptly turns back around. There’s no way Kamasaki wasn’t intended to hear the hissy “gross” whispered into his sheets.

“If you’re worried about _gross_ you’ve got no business sticking your face into my sheets,” Kamasaki says drily and waits.

An indignant squawk rips from Futakuchi’s throat as he whirls around, long limbs flapping every which way. Kamasaki’s heart goes out to the pages of several text books that rip as a result of Futakuchi’s flailing but they’re acceptable sacrifices in the face of their ongoing spat.

He stoically takes another chip from the bag and slowly crushes it between his teeth.

accusation all in quick succession while he tries to work out if he’s bluffing. Eventually it settles on something vaguely resembling resentment. Kamasaki recognises it for the pout it really is.

There’s only one chip left in the bag and he eats it unrepentantly.

It tastes like triumph.

“So about that thing, you wanted help with–”

“I did not ‘come begging’,” Futakuchi interrupts. Kamasaki lightly slaps Futakuchi’s good arm with the empty bag of chips because disrespect breeds disrespect.

Of course, out of everything, that’s what Futakuchi gets hung up on.

Kamasaki tries and fails to reign in his leery grin because they’ve played this game dozens of times before and at this point, the only person Futakuchi is fooling is himself. Judging by the sour look on his face, he isn’t even doing a good job of that.

“Oh, you’re gonna.”

He meant to follow it up with “Soon as midterms come around”, however, Futakuchi picks precisely that moment to choke on what Kamasaki can only assume is his massive ego.

It’s been a long time coming, he supposes, but the surprise still momentarily derails his train of thought.

Futakuchi is staring at him like the proverbial deer in the headlights and, once again, the only thing Kamasaki’s brain supplies is ‘doe eyes’.

So what if he gets hung up, too, sometimes.

It’s not the first time he notices Futakuchi’s got a nice face. It’s an objectively true fact. Any effect it might have on him, though, always instantly gets overshadowed by the fact that it’s _Futakuchi’s face_ he’s looking at. And no matter _how_ he looks at it, Futakuchi’s still a nasty piece of work. _Objectively_.

Except Kamasaki _really_ doesn’t have it in him to dislike him. And he would know. He’s spent the better part of their relationship desperately trying and failing to.

Huffing a breath, he runs a hand through his short hair, bristly from the last time he bleached it.

“Don’t gimme that look. You always come running before exams. I need to study too, you know.”

“Yeah, uh, you… Yeah, you do.”

Huh. Kamasaki genuinely didn’t expect to live to see the day Futakuchi fumbled an opportunity to taunt him.

The novelty of the situation only further detracts from the insult and Kamasaki’s fairly sure that Futakuchi’s look of confusion is a mirror of his own.

It’s a bizarre sense of obligation rather than genuine ire that makes Kamasaki ball up the empty bag of chips and throw it at Futakuchi’s head.

Futakuchi’s too distracted to take evasive action. However, he does yelp in offended surprise when the ball hits his face. The glare he sends him immediately helps restore a sense of normalcy.

With renewed vigour, Kamasaki claps his hands on his thighs.

“Let’s get to it then. Sooner you get this, sooner I get to kick you out.”

Futakuchi raises his leg.

Before Kamasaki has time to process what’s happening, he’s already hit the ground.

* * *

Contrary to what Moniwa thinks, Kamasaki and Futakuchi actually can be left in a room together without the encounter invariably escalating to voluntary manslaughter.

Quick-tempered in general, Kamasaki inevitably wears himself out bristling over the tiniest things Futakuchi says and does. In his constant need for attention, Futakuchi inevitably grows bored of harassing Kamasaki when deprived of his usual bluff and bluster.

Once they’re done knocking antlers for the day, things generally tend to progress—if not smoothly—then, at least, peaceably.

Which is the only reason why, hours later, Kamasaki finds himself hunched over his desk, painstakingly sketching out several different kinds of engine in a last-ditch effort to hammer the differences into Futakuchi’s brain.

All the while, he’s studiously ignoring the lump of warmth that’s practically glued itself to his back.

He’s an athlete _and_ a teenage male. The last thing he needs is a sentient heating pad attaching itself to him.

Kamasaki’s been itching to take off his button up for a while now. However, if he interrupts the workflow now, he fears, he’ll lose Futakuchi. Again.

With an air of finality, he digs the blunt end of his mechanical pencil into the very rough approximation of a cylinder liner. The lead slips back inside the tip with a soft click.

“You following?”

Futakuchi hums thoughtfully. The slightest puff of air tickles the shell of his ear.

For several nerve-racking seconds, Kamasaki is convinced he’ll say no again and they’ll have to start over from scratch.

Then, Futakuchi, beautiful soul that he is, smacks his lips and lightly knocks the back of his hand against Kamasaki’s shoulder blade, and says, “I think I got it.”

A hint of quiet awe has crept into his voice.

It’s moments like these when Kamasaki’s most aware that he actually loves being a third year and having the opportunity to help out his underclassmen.

And in this particular moment he loves Futakuchi too, because _he’s got it!_ Finally!

Fully intending to milk the moment for all it’s worth, he puts on his biggest shit-eating grin, swirls his chair, and damn near gets his teeth knocked out.

Kamasaki has long harboured the theory that Futakuchi might carry a fair bit more monkey DNA than the average human in his genome.

He just failed to account for it manifesting as an apparent need to cling to his back like a fucking baby chimp and the consequent disregard for personal space.

Although a baby kuchi would be decidedly cuter than Futachimp, who—

He presses the feel of his hand against his forehead with an agonised groan while he tries to sort his jumbled thought processes.

“Ow,” he adds, somewhat redundantly.

Propping his elbow on his desk, he rests his head against that same hand and waits for the flashy shapes to go away. Kamasaki doesn’t consciously decide to check on Futakuchi. He feels too out of it to even move his eyes and Futakuchi just happens to exist in his field vision.

And right now, Futakuchi’s cupping his nose. Kamasaki can’t help the curse that escapes him when he spots a trickle of blood.

To his discredit, Kamasaki’s first thought is of the carpeting and how he’ll explain the blood stains to his mum.

His second thought is of himself and how, for all the times he threatened to, he’d never actually intended to break Futakuchi’s nose.

His third thought is that he’s being a shithead.

People talk about knocking common sense into someone a lot, he never realised you could get it knocked out of you, too.

With a shake of his head (that he regrets immediately because ouch) Kamasaki dismisses the previous trains of thought and springs into action.

He quickly grabs Futakuchi by the arm and ushers him into the bathroom, hissing a quiet mantra of _shitshitshitshit_ all the way there.

Futakuchi is suspiciously quiet.

For a second, Kamasaki is worried. Then he notices the burning red colour of Futakuchi’s ears and that he’s avoiding looking him in the eye at all cost, and he concludes that it’s embarrassment rather than brain damage that’s got Futakuchi putting his snark on hold.

Once he’s got Futakuchi bent over the sink and an old towel pressed to his nose, Kamasaki’s already starting to calm down. He still take several calming breaths until he’s sure his hands are steady.

Then he moves in to take a closer look.

As a volleyball player, Kamasaki’s seen his fair share of broken noses over the years. He’s reasonably confident in his ability to recognise one when he sees it.

Luckily, that doesn’t seem to be what they’re dealing with. Even though Futakuchi flinches and bats at his hand whenever he touches it.

Kamasaki’s not exactly fussing, but it’s a near thing.

“Ftob id. ‘mfine,” Futakuchi protests, voice muffled by the towel and a good deal more nasal than usual.

“I know. Now stop being a baby and let me deal with it.”

Despite the initial melodramatic roll of his eyes, Futakuchi shuts up and holds still while Kamasaki continues not-fussing over him.

Eventually, one of his hands ends up resting on Futakuchi’s back while the other is pinching the bridge of his nose.

As they’re waiting for the minutes to pass, Kamasaki’s acutely aware of what an awful picture they’re making.

They’re huddling together by necessity because Kamasaki’s bathroom is barely big enough for one regular-sized adult, let alone two volleyball-player-sized ones and Kamasaki feels betrayed by every piece of fiction that ever portrayed being locked in a closet together as cute.

Although he’s periodically readjusting his grip, Kamasaki’s hand starts cramping two minutes in. Since he’s having trouble standing still, Futakuchi is getting fidgety too. The towel rail is poking Kamasaki’s ass and he can’t move away either because then Futakuchi’s wriggling might result in something else entirely poking _his_ ass.

And he can’t handle that while the sink’s looking like something just got fucking murdered in it and the simple act of breathing is making him gag because the smell!

It’s an all-around unpleasant situation to be in.

Time creeps until the passage of time loses all meaning and Kamasaki finally learns the true meaning of patience.

By the time they hit the five minute mark the bleeding stops, mercifully.

Kamasaki drops his arms, revelling in something as simple as blood flow returning to them and Futakuchi slumps forward in relief, head hung low. Something about him just screams misery and Kamasaki doesn’t know what to do other than frown in understanding.

“Danks,” Futakuchi mumbles into the bowl of the sink but doesn’t move otherwise.

It’s downright pitiful and Kamasaki decides that the only decent thing to do is leave. Give Futakuchi a chance lick his wounds and salvage what’s left of his pride.

“I…” he says and trails off because there’s nothing to be said. “I’ll let you get cleaned up.”

“Uh huh.”

Futakuchi sends him a meaningful look from the corner of his eyes and a moment of mutual understanding passes between them. Kamasaki nods.

_Not a word about this. To anybody._

He shuts the bathroom door with an air of gravitas. Then he goes to fetch some ice packs form the kitchen.

When he gets back to his room, he isn’t the least bit surprised to find Futakuchi sprawled on his bed again, wallowing in the dregs of his misery. Kamasaki unceremoniously tosses the ice pack somewhere in his general direction.

Futakuchi yowls like a fox in January when it hits the naked stretch of skin where his shirt has ridden up enough to expose part of his stomach.

The sound hurts Kamasaki’s brain on a physical level. He just doesn’t have the mental faculties to care at the moment.

Futakuchi shoots him a nasty glare from underneath his dishevelled bangs and Kamasaki shrugs.

“Scoot,” he says and doesn’t actually wait to see if Futakuchi moves or not before he plops down and presses the ice pack to his forehead.

Futakuchi, predictably, didn’t scoot and now they’re squeezed uncomfortably close despite Kamasaki’s bed being wide enough to easily accommodate two people lying side by side. Their shoulders are mashed together, their elbows are poking each other at odd angles, their knees knock together whenever one of them so much as breathes wrong.

“Move.”

“You move.”

Neither moves.

Not even when the ice packs have long since reached room temperature and they really should.

Nothing matters on this Day That Won’t Be Talked About Again. And if there’s even the slightest chance they’re not completely uncomfortable after all then it doesn’t matter either.

They still haven’t moved by the time Futakuchi’s mother calls to ask if he’s spending the night, which is when Futakuchi remembers that it’s a school night and the only button up he’s got with him is stained with blood. Since he absolutely won’t suffer the indignity of going to school in one of Kamasaki’s comically large shirts, he ends up nearly falling over himself in his mad dash for the last bus.

The next day, the bruise on Kamasaki’s forehead has darkened and migrated south, shaping up into a magnificent black eye.

Futakuchi’s nose has nearly doubled in size. It, too, sports a dazzling array of colours.

Moniwa does an honest-to-god spit-take when he catches sight of them at morning practice and, for once, even Sasaya fails to find the humour in the situation.

Shortly afterwards, Oiwake takes them aside for a stern talking to that leaves both of them feeling four inches tall, ready to be scooped up with a dustpan and disposed of.

When they inevitably start bickering, Moniwa sicks Aone on them almost instantly. Apparently, it’s far from the last time he’ll be called upon to separate them.

The origin of those bruises remains a subject wrapped in stony silence.

It’s not like all that much has changed.

Futakuchi still provokes Kamasaki at every chance he gets. Kamasaki still rises to Futakuchi’s ludicrous baits.

Come exams, Futakuchi still comes running and Kamasaki’s still a sucker who can’t say no to a pair of big brown eyes.

“Kamasaki-san, that’s the third serve you’ve fumbled! Are you having another off-day?”

Even if it means dealing with that rotten attitude of Futakuchi’s.

**Author's Note:**

> There Kamasaki goes, casually dropping the L-bomb _twice_ and still not getting it.
> 
> And then there's Futakuchi who never graduated from the pigtail-pulling stages of romance.
> 
> If this fic is to be believed, these two have a long, long, _long_ way to go.
> 
> Also, does it show that I have absolutely zero idea what school work at a technological secondary school might look like and which parts might trip somebody up?


End file.
